


kiss me on the mouth (and set me free)

by usuallysunny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dark(er) Jon, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Hate to Love, Hurt/Comfort, Oneshot, Pre-Canon, R Plus L Equals J, Season/Series 01, but not really because Jon's a Targaryen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 04:29:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19243861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: Sansa Stark hates her bastard half-brother. She hates his brooding stare, his dark, stranger’s eyes. She hates the way his very existence hurts her mother, that Robb and Arya love him all the same.And she hates that fire that sparks to life every time they argue.---An AU of the secret, complicated relationship between Jon and Sansa pre-series.





	kiss me on the mouth (and set me free)

 

It dawns surprisingly sunny and warm, the day Ned Stark brings home a stranger’s baby.

He stands before his wife, awkward silence stretching out in the widening gap between them. Catelyn Stark clutches her own bundle to her chest, a mirror image, so different yet so much the same.

She’s surprised at how much it hurts. After-all, she hardly knows her husband. He had lingered just a fortnight before he had ridden off to war, leaving her with more than broken promises. Nine moons had been and gone and now she has a son, born while his father still warred in the unfamiliar lands of the South. 

“I’ve named him Robb,” she mutters, “I hope you do not mind.”

She almost laughs at the absurdity of the statement.

 _I hope you do not mind,_ she says, while he stands holding another woman’s child.

Something flickers over Ned’s face - not quite guilt, but _something._

The stranger’s baby fusses in her husband’s arms again and Catelyn’s cold gaze focuses on it.

Two boys.

One the future Lord of Winterfell, one its bastard.

She glances down at her own babe, best she can through her tears, and prays she knows which title will be his.

 

 

Lady Catelyn’s screams tear through the Great Keep, the day Sansa Stark opens her eyes on the world.

Robb, though only older by days, stands big and strong and tells Jon to grow up, tearing away the little hands Jon clamps over his ears.

“Don’t be a stupid girl,” his small voice chastises and Jon blinks back fat tears.  

Their father is pacing, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and his hands flex into fists and still, Lady Catelyn screams. 

“This is absurd!” Ned Stark is shouting at Old Nan, that rough brogue an even deeper timbre than usual, “She is my wife! I should be in there with her.”

Old Nan tuts, scooping Robb up in her arms.

“Nonsense,” she sits down on a hard chair, cradling the eldest Stark in her arms and Jon’s sick with jealousy, “The birthing chamber is no place for a man.”

Catelyn screams again, an agonizing howl, and Jon’s blood runs cold.

Ned rests his forehead against the wood of the door, his chest rising and falling. His breath is ragged and his lips are set in a thin line and he looks so _scared,_ which is stupid.

Fathers don’t get scared. Especially not Eddard Stark.

Jon reaches a chubby hand up and tugs at his fist until he can squeeze a finger inside.

Ned’s head snaps to him and he tries a tense smile.

“Will the Lady Catelyn be okay?”

He asks, because even though she hurts him, all he’s ever wanted is for her to love him. To be able to call her _mother._

Ned smiles for real this time, sighing and picking him up. He holds him close and Jon feels calm. This is familiar, safe. Ned’s his father and he _loves_ him.

Ned doesn’t reply, can’t reply, because the sounds of Catelyn’s screams have been replaced by a tiny, shrill squeal. 

His father puts him down and rushes into the room.

Old Nan brushes past him with Robb too and Jon’s paralysed, staring through the open doorway. Catelyn’s exhausted figure holds a bundle in her arms, a babe with light hair like Robb.

Jon wants to rip at his inky curls, tear them out from the root.

There’s laughter and kisses and tears and he can’t tear his eyes away from the babe.

Another Stark, a _true_ Stark, who will look through Tully-blue eyes and call Catelyn _mother._

Through the commotion, Jon hears that the babe is a girl.

He hates her already.

 

 

The years come and go and more Starks arrive.

With each one - Arya and Bran and Rickon - Jon feels a little part of him splinter away. He feels alone, the runt of the litter, and even being _Theon_ would be better because at least he doesn’t share the blood at all. 

He doesn’t have half of them - kind of family, but not really.

It doesn’t help the way Sansa looks at him from across the dinner table, all disapproving and cruel, with eyes as cold as her mother’s.

Gods, he still hates her.

 

 

“No Arya!” Sansa is squealing, stomping her foot like the petulant child she is, “Why do you have to ruin _everything_?”

Jon tries unsuccessfully not to roll his eyes,

“I don’t want to be a stupid princess,” Arya bites back, every inch as wild as their precious direwolves, “I’m gonna be Visenya the dragonrider, riding the mighty Vhagar.”

A frustrated shriek tears from Sansa’s throat and she stomps again.

“It’s alright, Sansa,” Robb chuckles, slicing his wooden sword through the cold Northern air, “You be the Princess and I’ll be the Southron Prince you’ve always dreamed of.”

His voice, deeper than it was a few months ago, drips with light-hearted sarcasm.

“And here I thought _I_ was playing the Targaryen.” Arya smirks and Jon chuckles.

The sound makes Sansa’s gaze snap to his.

“I don’t know what you’re laughing at,” She mutters scornfully, hatred flashing through her eyes, “You shouldn’t even be here. No-one wants to play with you.”

“Sansa!” Robb chastises, brows pulling into a frown as he sheathes his sword. 

Jon waves a dismissive hand, as though he can bat her words away, stop them from penetrating too deep.

“I do,” Arya nudges him, sending him a kind smile, “He’s our brother.”

Sansa’s expression hardens even further, icy eyes narrowing.

“He’s no brother of mine." 

The words hurt and Jon’s jaw clenches.

He throws his sword down and stalks away from the forest, back to the castle.

He doesn’t feel like playing anymore.

 

 

“It should’ve been you,” Sansa whispers scornfully, the night Bran loses his legs.

Her striking blue eyes are filled with tears as she sits by her brother’s bedside.

She won’t look at him.

From where he stands in the doorway, Jon’s jaw clenches but his expression remains blank, sullen and cool.

Her words don’t hurt anymore.

 

 

Jon’s wandering the halls, unable to sleep, when he hears Robb’s voice from behind Sansa’s door.

“Why are you so cold to him?” 

He falters, curiosity piqued, and hovers outside.

Sansa scoffs and Jon can practically _see_ her expression, all conceited and spoilt, with her nose upturned to the air.

“He’s not our brother.”

She repeats her rallying cry and Jon’s hands curl into fists at his side. He thinks she’s boring, that she should get a new line, and he should leave but he just _can’t._

“Yes he is, Sansa,” Robb’s voice is hard, authoritative and commanding, “Whether you like it or not, Jon _is_ our brother. He’s ours.”

Jon’s throat burns and his chest feels too tight.

“What about Mother?” Sansa scolds, “Don’t you care about her feelings at all?”

Robb’s reply is measured and fair and he sounds just like the future Lord of Winterfell should.

“I know you love mother, I do too. But her treatment of Jon is not right. It is not what father wants.”

“I don’t care what father wants,” Sansa replies petulantly, “Jon is a Snow. A bastard. Not one of us.”

There it is, that word again, and Jon can’t breathe.

“You really seek to punish him?” Robb’s low voice is equal parts disappointment and disbelief, “Simply for the crime of being born?”

“I don’t seek _anything_ for him,” she replies coldly, “I just want him to go away.”

“You are a Stark… and Starks take care of their own. I expected better of you, Sansa.”

Jon admires Robb’s sense of honour, the kindness and loyalty that flows through his veins.

He hopes it doesn’t get him killed one day.

 

 

Sansa grows up to be quite the beauty, while Jon’s baby fat melts away to reveal tanned skin and sharp edges.

Their personalities change too, shifting with the moon and tide.

They both throw themselves into their duties, living up to their names.

Sansa becomes the practiced Lady she was born to be, prim and proper.

And if Jon’s a bastard, he’s going to be a bastard, cold and taciturn and sullen.

She still treats him like dirt under her shoe, reserving every cold look, every harsh word, just for him.

But sometimes, just sometimes, his gaze lingers too long on the curve of her creamy neck, her sharp collarbones, the womanly curves hidden under fancy dresses.

When Catelyn is cruel to him, harsh and unforgiving, his dark thoughts often turn to her eldest daughter.

He thinks of punishing her by spreading her daughter’s milky thighs, cock hard as valyrian steel as he slides inside her wet, wanting cunt.

The thought gets him harder than any tavern wench.

 

 

“He looks twelve,” Jon whispers in Sansa’s ear as Joffrey Baratheon dismounts his horse and begins walking towards them.

Sansa keeps her gaze focused straight ahead, but he registers the tick of her jaw, a sure-fire sign that she’s annoyed.

“Shut up,” she hisses.

“Both of you shut up,” Robb drawls, keeping his practiced smile plastered on his face.

Ned and King Robert are still speaking, old friends catching up on years lost, and Jon smirks before stepping back and returning to his position, satisfied. He catches Arya out of the corner of his eye and throws her a wink.

The prince comes to stand next to his father, following him down the line of Starks.

“Ah, the future Lord of Winterfell,” Robert’s booming voice rings out as he shakes Robb’s hand. Robb nods smoothly, his furs pulled impeccably around his broad shoulders.

“The littlest Starks,” he greets Arya, Bran and Rickon as one, much to Arya’s dismay, before he notices Jon behind them.

Before he can say anything, Prince Joffrey chimes in.

“The Bastard of Winterfell,” he smirks, “you do not stand beside your brothers and sisters?”

“He knows his rightful place, son.” Robert slaps him on the back cheerfully, before Jon can reply.

Jon’s jaw ticks and his fingers itch to strangle something, but he gives a short nod instead.

“Lady Sansa,” Robert finally arrives at the eldest Stark daughter, his hands gripping the tops of her arms. He looks at her for a moment, the way a man may glance upon a fine painting, and he seems pleased with what he sees. “A fine Princess you will make.”

Sansa beams happily and Jon wants to roll his eyes.

He will never understand her desperation to be a silly little Princess, a life so superficial, a life that shows nothing of the fire he sees in her underneath.

Joffrey’s face is annoyingly smug as he lifts her hand to his lips and kisses it.

An emotion Jon refuses to recognise as jealousy, as possession, flares to life inside him.

 

 

Sometimes he catches Sansa looking.

Sometimes it’s when he’s sparring in the courtyard with Robb. Robb’s stronger but Jon’s quicker and he feels her gaze burning a hole in his back when he grins and holds the blade to his brother’s neck.

Sometimes it’s at dinner, when he’s drinking from his cup and licking his top lip and her gaze seems transfixed on the path of his tongue.

Sometimes it’s when he’s tying his black curls into a neat bun, keeping the strands away from his face, and she suddenly seems very interested in his stranger’s locks.

From her all-seeing position on the balcony, Catelyn Stark stares down at him with eyes even colder than usual.

She must see Sansa looking too.

 

 

Jon fights with all his siblings, but never the way he fights with her.

He reprimands Arya when she steals his sword, dragging her back from the Godswood by the scruff of her neck and telling her he’ll teach her how to use it when she’s old enough.

Robb’s better than him at everything, better at reading, better at swordplay, better at charming girls… and sometimes Jon’s so blind with jealousy, he picks fights with him for no reason.

He scolds Bran when he catches him bullying Rickon, reminding him they all have their crosses to bear and it’s not his little brother’s fault he’s in that chair. But then, he’s a hypocrite, because he snaps impatiently at Rickon too when the littlest Stark tugs incessantly on his tunic and demands he play with him.

However, these encounters, these small quibbles between siblings who love each other, are nothing compared to the cataclysmic struggles he has with Sansa.

They’re in the middle of one now, as Sansa screams at him to get out of her room.

“Gods, woman,” he grunts, grabbing a pair of shoes from the table, “I only came to fetch Arya’s slippers.”

He thinks she’s a spoilt brat, always running too hot, and he wants to leave but she’s still screaming at him.

“I don’t want you here!”

He whips around, eyes wild.

“Really?” He spits venomously, “Because you haven’t made that _quite_ clear since the day you took your first bratty breath!”

She stands, chest rising and falling with the rapidity of her breaths, and Jon’s gaze is drawn like a magnet to her heaving breasts.

“How dare you?” She exclaims furiously, “I am _not_ a brat!”

“And I’m not a bastard,” he rolls his eyes.

“Yes, you are.” She crosses her arms over her chest, smug.

“I was being sarcastic,” he gives her an arrogant smile, narrowing his eyes.

“Eugh, you are insufferable! What do I have to do to make you go away?”

He quirks a brow, crossing his own arms over his broadening chest and leaning against the door.

“You can tell me what I’ve done to make you hate me so much.”

Sansa’s eyes widen and it would be comical, if it wasn’t so sad.

“You broke mother’s heart.” She replies simply, voice high and petulant.

Jon’s lips twitch but it’s not quite a smile.

“No,” he murmurs, “Father saw to that when he laid down and fucked some tavern whore. I had no say in the matter.”

Sansa’s mouth drops open, an outraged exhale escaping her lips. For once in her damned life, she’s speechless and Jon revels in it.

“Does that offend your delicate sensibilities, _my lady_?” He takes a step towards her, voice bitter and sharp, “Talk of _fucking_?”

Sansa blinks before turning her face away.

“Don’t be crude,” she mutters and he watches her cheeks flush an alluring red.

“Why not?” he takes a step toward her, predatory, eyes flashing a darker shade, “You’re wound so tight, dear sister, perhaps that’s what you need. A good… hard… _fuck_.”

An infuriated cry escapes her lips at his arrogance, her hand moving instinctively to slap him.

He smoothly grabs her wrist before she can make contact, leaning in so close she can feel his breath fanning over her lips. Her eyes flicker to his mouth, a hot, confusing desire coiling in the pit of her stomach.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes blazing, “Not this time, sweetheart.”

She swallows, everything pulsing a little hotter, burning brighter than before.

He lets her go, but she still feels his touch, branded on her skin.

 

 

It’s not love that brings them together that first time.

It’s another fight, another case of him standing there, nostrils flared and jaw clenching, as streams of hateful slurs fall from that prim and proper mouth.

His anger flares and he just wants her to shut up, he wants her to _stop talking._ His fingers itch and he wants to fight.

He wants to break her like she’s breaking him.

If he doesn’t kiss her, he thinks he might kill her.

So, when she boasts of marrying Joffrey, of finally getting away from him, he wraps a hand around her neck and crashes his mouth to hers.

She gasps in surprise, a sharp intake of breath that has him pushing his tongue inside her mouth. She staggers backwards, her back hitting the wall with a painful thud as his hands cradle her face and his lips slant over hers.

He can’t think, he can’t even _breathe;_ he just kisses her so she stops talking.

She surrenders with a heavy moan, a desperate whimper, and of all the battles he will go on to win, this will forever remain the sweetest.

 

 

“I still hate you,” she groans, head tipping back as he bites his way down her pale neck, “This doesn’t change anything.”

He grips her hips harder, pulling her flush against him.

“It changes everything,” he murmurs into her flushed skin, peppering open-mouthed kisses everywhere he can find. He pauses to suck at the skin of her collarbone and she keens against him.

“No marks,” she gasps, tugging at the leather of his jerkin.

He kisses her brutally and revels in the dazed look she gives him when he pulls away.

The grin he sends her is positively wolfish.

“Mmm, Mother wouldn’t like that, would she?” He hums, the pad of his thumb rubbing over her swollen bottom lip.

“Eugh, I hate you.”

“Aye, you said that already,” he murmurs, and his fingers travel under her dress to the apex of her thighs. He roughly pushes her smallclothes aside and finds her aching centre, “Do you get this wet for every man you hate?”

Sansa almost sobs, bucking against his fingers.

He pushes two inside, his thumb simultaneously rubbing her sensitive bundle of nerves. He kisses her, his tongue licking inside the hot cavern of her mouth, and swallows her moans of pleasure. He fucks her harder with his fingers, playing her like an instrument he mastered years ago, and the strong arm around her waist is the only thing that keeps her suspended.

He rests his forehead against hers and Sansa’s first ever orgasm fires through her, her brother’s name on her lips.

Years later, when he finds out it’s dragon's blood that flows through his veins, he will remember this moment, this eagerness to have his sister come all over his fingers, and his heritage won’t come as such a surprise.

 

 

“Is your brother betrothed?” Jeyne Poole asks one day in the Godswood, a mischievous glint to her eye.

Sansa picks at a blade of dewy grass.

“Which one?”

Jeyne purses her lips, trying to conceal her smile.

“Either. Robb and Jon are both quite handsome.”

A strange sensation swirls in Sansa’s gut and she’s suddenly blind with inexplicable rage.

“I have four brothers, actually,” she sniffs petulantly, like that matters.

“Yes, but Bran and Rickon are children and I have no interest in children,” Jeyne dismisses, sitting up straight and trying to look older than she is. Sansa thinks she looks stupid. Like a stupid, silly girl.

“I do not mean to offend, but Robb will be Lord of Winterfell one day. He must marry a Lady, and your father is only a steward.”

“Such a shame,” Jeyne tuts, raising her eyes to the sky, “Well, what about Jon? He won’t ever be a Lord… and I like his pretty hair and his pretty eyes.”

Jealousy kicks at Sansa’s stomach like a mule.

"You can’t marry him either.”

“Why?”

Sansa closes her eyes. She tells herself to remain calm. Ladies don’t lose their temper and she is a Lady, despite the filthy things Jon whispers in her ear at night.

“You just can’t,” she says petulantly, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It’s boring.”

“Alright,” Jeyne quirks a suspicious brow and Sansa wants to slap her, “What shall we talk about instead?”

Sansa doesn’t care.

 

 

She likes to tease him at dinner, likes to see how far she can push things, right under their family’s nose.

She pops a cherry into her mouth, refusing to break heated eye contact as her tongue wraps around the fruit.

Jon shifts in his chair, rolling his shoulders.

“Are you uncomfortable, son?” Ned asks, noticing the way he shuffles.

Jon sends him a tense smile and Sansa purses her lips, capturing the bottom one between her teeth.

“I’m fine,” Jon says tersely, “What were you saying?”

As their father’s voice fills the dining room again, Sansa slips her foot out of her slipper. She points her toes like her dancing teacher taught her, though she’s sure her teacher would turn an amusing shade of white if she knew how she was putting her lessons to use.

Dainty toes walk their way up his strong calf, until they come to rest on his crotch. She rubs tiny circles, pressing insistently against the bulge in his breeches. 

Jon jolts, trying to cover his surprise by clearing his throat.

Sansa’s lips pull into a smirk, as she feels him hardening under her touch.

Jon throws her a dark, warning glance. His pupils dilate to black, his jaw clenching in a strong line.

Her mother starts talking about Joffrey, about what a fine Queen she will make.

She doesn’t listen.

She never thought there’d come a day when she didn’t care about being Queen, but right now, she can’t think about that. She can't think about anything at all.

Not when Jon Snow is looking at her like that.

 

 

“I want to take your maidenhead,” he murmurs hotly against her lips as she sits astride him, honeyed Northern accent rougher than usual, “I want to fuck you.”

Sansa whimpers against him and sits up, hips grinding harder. His fingers dig into the skin of her waist and he drags her over his cock, revelling in the tiny mewls that fall from her lips as she tips her head back.

“Fuck,” she whispers, a curse entirely unbefitting of a lady. But she doesn’t feel like a lady, not when her body is on fire and Jon Snow is between her legs.

She anchors her palms on his strong chest and her nails dig in, carving moon-shaped crescents into his skin. She drags her nails down, revelling in his sharp hiss, marking him.

_Mine._

His own hands find purchase on her fleshy behind, helping her to slide against him.

“I want that too,” she whispers finally, feeling his erection hot and hard against the swollen nub between her thighs.

“Come here,” he murmurs huskily, grabbing her hips and pulling her up, “I want to taste you first.”

Sansa’s eyes widen and she should protest _– she’s going to protest_ \- but then he’s yanking her up to his face and his tongue is darting out to taste her.

She throws her head back, the sensation unlike anything she’s ever experienced. Pleasure sparks from her head to the tips of her toes, as he rolls his tongue against her and grips her waist.

It’s crude and obscene, the sounds he’s making. It feels too good to care, and she grinds her hips down, riding his face. He tongues at her expertly, his full lips drawing out her pleasure, and her thighs tremble around his head.

There’s no room for embarrassment, for shame, and when she glances down and sees him looking at her, pupils blown to black, she peaks so hard she’s sure she’s breaking apart.

She’s only free when she’s here, with him.

 

 

Winter comes and goes and they find sanctuary in the Godswood.

It’s risky, they could lose everything, but the idea of being caught adds to the thrill and Jon can’t bring himself to care.

Not when he’s leaning against a tree and Sansa’s lips are wrapped around his cock. 

He tips his head back, hands wrapping in her red hair, as he slowly bucks his hips.

She hums around him, bright blue eyes flickering up to his face.

“Shit, that’s it,” he moans as he jerks and swells in her mouth, “Suck my cock.”

Sansa’s cheeks burst into heat and she rubs her slick thighs together to try and alleviate the pressure. He’s normally so controlled, so taciturn and reserved, nothing gets her hotter than when he lets go, the filthy words he rambles for her when he knows no-one else can hear.  

She opens her mouth wider, taking him further inside, and her hand pumps what her mouth can’t take.

Eventually, his hands tighten and he keeps her head anchored, hips moving as he slowly fucks her mouth. Even now, he can't relinquish control. He makes her go at his pace, pupils blown to black.

“Such a good girl for me…” he hums.

He comes with her name on his lips – and it’s the best thing Sansa’s ever heard.

 

 

“You can’t go!”

Sansa’s pacing up and down, eyes frantic and desperate.

Jon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“I have to, Sansa,” he insists, “Uncle Benjen thinks it’s the best place for me and I agree. I can rise high in the Night’s Watch. No-one will care that I’m a bastard.”

 _He’s really going_ , Sansa thinks with a start. An inexplicable tension bubbles in her stomach and she suddenly can’t breathe. He’s pulling away and soon he’ll be gone, the rest of her long life without him.

“There is nothing for me here,” he says, voice even.

Tears prick at Sansa’s vision.

“I’m here,” she whispers.

Jon laughs, but there’s no humour in it.

“You hate me.”

She takes a step forward, her hand darting out to palm his crotch. He hisses, part torture, part surprise, but Sansa squeezes harder because _this_ is what she knows.

Something unspoken between them, this is how they work.

“I don’t hate _this_ ,” she murmurs, tipping her head up. Her mouth traces the strong line of his jaw and she tastes salt and dirt and tears - his or hers, she’s not sure.

He pauses for a moment, before he grabs her face and crashes his mouth to hers.

“How long do we have?” she whispers when they break away.

He pulls back to look at her, and she’s never seen that expression on his face before.

“A few days.”

Her eyes and throat burn, but she gives a tense smile.

“Then we must make them count,” she kisses him again, soft and slow and wet, “Take me, Jon.”

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. After-all, she’s his half sister and they don’t like each other at the best of times and Prince Joffrey will come to his marital bed expecting a maiden for a wife.

But he's never loved her like a brother should – and he’s far too selfish to worry about how the future will unfold in the unforgiving land of Kings Landing.

They are the North, and they’re together.

 

 

While he grows closer to most of his siblings, he drifts further away from her.

Robb pats him on the back, tells him there’ll always be a place for him here, within the loving walls of Winterfell. Bran is jealous he gets to be of some use and Rickon wants to be just like him. Arya even cries. 

None of them are happy with his decision, but they come to respect it.

All but her.

While her siblings spend their days punishing her for her cruel treatment, she spends her nights punishing _him._

Neither of them understand it, this rare and beautiful and fragile thing that they are.

So they ignore it, hiding behind anger, speaking with their bodies instead.

It’s not love that pushes his hips into hers, rutting against her like an animal, like a wolf, marking her skin with his teeth. It’s not love that makes him spread her legs wider and pound into her, his hand slapping over her mouth to cover her cries.

“You like that?” He grunts as he thrusts deeper, one hand gripping the bedframe as the other stays clamped over her mouth, “You think your precious _Joffrey_ will ever fuck you like this?”

Sansa moans against his palm, eyes rolling to the back of her head. 

His hands come down to the pillows either side of her head, caging her in. Her own travel to his ass and she pulls him deeper inside her, wrapping her legs tight around his strong waist.

“No, just you. Only you…” she babbles against his mouth.

He captures her lips in a scorching kiss.

“Aye,” he murmurs with a swelling sense of pride when they break away. _He_ does that. _He_ makes her boneless beneath him, _he_ makes her body sing, “ _Gods_ , your cunt feels so good. Always so warm and wet for me.”

“Jon,” she practically sobs as he hits the perfect spot inside her.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he growls, fucking her into the sheets, “Louder.”

She knows she shouldn’t. Her mother, _their father,_ is in the next room, but he plays her like a fiddle, like a wolf who toys with its prey before ripping it apart.

“Jon…”

“Louder. I want her to hear,” he practically snarls, gathering her up, sliding her ankle up to his neck to deepen and intensify the sensation, “I want your bitch mother to hear you _begging_ for my cock, begging me to fill you up.”

A moan rips from Sansa’s throat, her pussy clenching tight as a vice around him, and he gives an answering groan.

“Fucking slut,” he grunts, pounding into her harder, “My good little slut.”

It’s perverse, disgusting really, but those words tip her over the edge. White hot pleasure sparks through her, wave upon wave crashing over her body, and she holds on and he holds on right back. It eclipses anything she ever _thought_ was pleasure in the past, and her mouth opens in a silent sob.

With a tortured groan, he follows swiftly behind, pulling out and spilling hot and sticky on her thigh.

He wants to give her a babe, wants to give her everything, but what good would it do to bring another bastard into the world?

What good would it do to tell her that the particular sea blue of her eyes, the sweet taste of her mouth after she’s eaten too many lemon cakes, the way it curls slightly more on the left than the right when she smiles…

These things have become home to him.

 

 

The snow falls harsh and cold, covering the ground in a blanket of white, the day he leaves for Castle Black.

He leaves them all with a parting gift, three tearful hugs for Bran and Rickon and Arya. Robb asks if mother has been kind and he confirms she has. Sansa’s sure it’s a lie. From where she stands on the balcony, she watches them embrace, her two brothers, so different and yet so much the same.

It’s only when she feels a chill on her cheeks that she realises she’s crying.

“What are you blubbering for?” Her sister’s voice rings out, high pitched and harsh, “We all know you hate him.”

 _You don’t know anything,_ Sansa thinks scornfully, _N_ _one of you do._

 _She_ knows, she remembers.

The North always remembers.

She turns to face her, forcing her eyes to shine cold and strong.

“What is that?” She snaps, her gaze flickering to the sword in Arya’s hands.

The little girl’s whole face seems to light up with pride.

“He had it made especially for me,” she says, all smug, “it’s called Needle and he told me how to use it, to stick them with the pointy end. What did he give you?”

The question makes her breath feel shallow in her chest, the realisation hitting her with unbearable force.

He gave her passion and adventure and excitement and  _life..._ but all she wanted was him.

“Nothing,” she finally answers, “Nothing at all.”

 

 

"I was awful, just admit it.”

She says years later, when there’s a new scar brandishing his battle-weary face and she has scars of her own, less visible, but painful all the same.

“You were occasionally awful,” he concedes, but there’s that kindness shining behind his dark eyes, that warm sense of familiarity.

Since she’s been away from home, she’s been beaten… bruised… raped and defiled and torn apart from the inside out.

She’s known monsters, and Jon Snow was never one of them.

She can’t remember the last time she slept. She just lays awake at night, counting the cracks in the ceiling, thinking about how they died.

_Mother, Father, Robb…_

This was all she wanted – _this -_ and now she has it.

When she saw him in that courtyard _…_ gods, she felt like she could _breathe_ again.

She could touch him and see him and be with him, _finally_.

It doesn’t seem real.

“Can you forgive me?” She asks and she’s smiling, but he can hear the tremor in her voice.

“There’s nothing to forgive—”

“ _Forgive me_.”

He smiles like a man finally brought back from the dead.  

“Alright," he murmurs, "Alright, I forgive you.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to come up with ideas for the next chapter of my story 'Run to You', but this lil monster just poured out of me. Blame sudden Sunday eve productivity...


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